


Life Isn't Fair

by RiceBowlDevils



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alpha Tom Riddle, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beta Hermione, Beta Ron, Bullied Harry, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mentions of Suicide, Murder, Omega Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape, Rikki User, Romance, Student Harry, Suicidal Harry, Teacher Tom, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12784800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiceBowlDevils/pseuds/RiceBowlDevils
Summary: Life is not fair for people like Harry. Living with his uncle he is abused at home and mercilessly bullied at school. But what if he did one really bad thing, would that make his life perfect?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a book called “Justice“ By Sarah Ciacia. It’s one of my favourites that I have read multiple times and have decided I sort of really wanted to see Harry Potter characters play through the book. The story will mainly follow the book, script and scenes, but I'll change it up and add some things here and there.
> 
> I don’t own the plot “Justice” so I highly suggest you go buy the book and read it. It's a very interesting book.  
> All rights go to the Owners of both books.
> 
> don't sue me >-<

 

**Sunday, May 30**

 

What would it be like, I wonder, to live a life of minimal pressure? To be judged kindly by others? To only face matters which can be resolved instantly? What would it be like if I were perfect in every way?

If my hair was the colour of walnut and shone in the sun? If mere acquaintances we actually my best friends, and if the guy I liked secretly adored me and was dying to show it?

What would it be like, I wonder, if I owned an automatic firearm (an M16 or M20 machine gun; in my fantasy either one will do)? If I had the guts to attend school this week and blow the head off Daphne Greengrass, the legs off Lavender Brown, the penis off Blaise Zabini, and the middle finger off Pansy Parkinson? Furthermore, what would it be like if they were me now? If they were ugly, an omega; if they were terribly unpopular?

 

Answer: I reckon it would be great.

 

I almost did it last night. I got the knife out from beneath the mattress and almost slit open my forearms. Slit them like a swine’s belly, readying it for the split.

I wanted to free the turmoil that is inside of me.

I had the tip of the blade against my skin. I could feel the pulse at my wrist, urging me to draw that first droplet of blood. That persistent beating at my wrist I long to end. Longed to, but somehow can’t.

Something always stops me. Or perhaps it’s someone. Whatever it is, I wish it would just let me be. Allow me to end this pain of living.

I can’t stand it anymore!

 

**Monday, May 31**

 

This morning I woke up with the most agonising cramps to date. My heat is heavier than usual. I wish that I would haemorrhage severely and die.

I needed to wash the sheets and the mattress cover. Uncle Vernon rose early and left for work without breakfast. It’s always such a relief to hear that front door click shut behind him. I’m able to venture out of my room then.

But this morning there was a substantial amount of guilt mixed with that relief.

I felt this guilt, like an innocent who has unwittingly sinned, as I bundled together the soiled bedclothes, sprayed them with a stain remover and tossed them into the washing machine. As I showered and dressed, then as I prepared my lunch: two pressed-chicken-loaf sandwiches and a couple of too-soft ginger biscuits. The refrigerator and pantry have been near-empty for so long now. I cannot recall the last time they were full.

 

Were they ever full? I wonder.

Yes, when aunt Petunia was alive.

 

That hardly matters now, anyway. I’ve lost my appetite for tasty food, which, under the circumstances, is surely a blessing.

I hate getting my heat. Try as I might censor this ugly fact (natural to most people, ugly to my uncle), Vernon always finds out. And more often than not, merely mentioning the subject of heats gives him apoplexy,

When uncle Vernon gets angry, he gets violent towards me. Or he belittles me in some way. “Move your fat hide,” he says. I can’t decide which is worse: the violence or the belittling. Sometimes he frightens me so bad I tend to pull at my hair and claw my own flesh as though fear is a physical thing- a perverse alien inhabiting my body- and I wish to tear it out of me before it drives me insane.

I wish I had a lock on my bedroom door, so I can feel and be safe in my own home. There’s really no place I can go to get away from him. Well apart from school, but that’s no haven either.

He backhanded me last night, for not making dinner the way he likes it. He got me with his signet ring. There’s a cut and a small raisen coloured cruise on my right cheekbone. Blink and you won’t miss it.

 

Nobody at school asked me how I got it. That’s because nobody cares.

 

Mrs McGonagall glanced at it when she asked me a question relevant to my essay topic, but she didn’t speak of it, which revealed a total lack of interest in my well-being.

Pardon my negativity for assuming that all teachers have an innate desire to show compassion, not to mention the responsibility to acknowledge this sort of thing, and to notify someone of greater authority who can do something about it, someone like the principal or even a social worker.

“Mr Dumbledore, I suspect a student of mine is being abused in the home, possibly by his uncle. What should I do?”

Mr McGonagall ignored it, that’s what she did. Does she think I bumped into a door or something? Can an experienced English teacher be that dense?

 

I’m very quiet at school. I keep to myself and don’t like to provoke or instigate trouble. I’m scared of drawing adverse attention to myself and in particular, of being laughed at. But being a male omega is somewhat of a rarity, only 5 in 100 males could have a chance with ending up with this sub gender.

I hate my fear, more than I hate myself. It makes me self-conscious, shy and unwilling to interact.  It reminds me that I’m ugly and repulsive to other kids. It leads me to romanticise about the knife tucked soundly beneath the mattress, and how very easy it would be to get a hold of and use at will.

I’m not sure why I’m writing all of this now, because it’s been happening for years. Nothing has changed. Life is as hellish and unbearable as it always was. And God only knows how long it will go on, this hellish nightmare I seem to be stuck in. How much more must I endure before someone pays the ultimate price? That someone being me?

 

There are possibly two people in the whole school (perhaps in the whole world) who do not blatantly regard me as a fetid dog meat: Ron and Hermione- ordinary names, but two very normal, down-to-earth human beings who are respected by hundreds of students, including myself. They are both good-looking beta’s, and both obviously deeply in love. In fact, they are so immersed in each other’s lives and are interested only in what the other has to say or do, they scarcely associate with anyone else.

So, one afternoon in April, when the doting twosome handed me a camera and asked me to photograph them posing in front of the ancient eucalypt behind the school library, I was stunned, bewildered- and eager to oblige. I was also the only person within easy reach of the camera, but still. They were very polite.

The myrtaceous tree is magnificent and it formed an ideal backdrop for such an enduring couple. Any relationship that lasts longer than a year in high school is considered a marriage of sorts, and they have been together since Year 7. I have no understanding of relationships; all I know is that I envy them.

Anyway, Ron and especially Hermione have smiled and said hello to me since, like I did them a favour and they wished to return it. Yet I am not easy to fool. The sapid smiles and gestures they impart are not false, but the reason for them is. I know they don’t like me. They only pity me.

 

Everybody else treats me badly. In particular, it’s the people in my year level- Pansy, Lavender and Blaise, and countless others.

My actions cannot be deemed accountable. I’ve not done a thing wrong to them. I hardly ever look at them- and if I do, it’s never voluntary- and yet they persist in calling me names. They persist in jabbing me insolently with their fingers. Glaring at me from across the room, wolf-whistling as I walk by the basketball courts. 

They even go so far as to write dirty poems and fake dirty love letters that refer to stuff I’ve never heard of, let alone tried. And the words they use! I can remember something about shoving one’s short arm’ into my ‘honey pot’. Seemingly cute, unequivocally vulgar.

 

They mustn’t like the looks of me, I reckon.

 

I suppose I can’t blame them. I’m not exactly model material, yet I’ve never bothered to try. I don’t meet their standards. I don’t meet society’s standards.

Sometimes I think I deserve it, the cold way they treat me, because if Vernon has taught me one thing, it’s that I’m unworthy of anything better.

Each morning I walk to school every bit aware of something ominous lurking just ahead of me. Maybe around the next corner. Something to ensnare me and never let go, like the salivating jaws of a hungry predator. I never turn back, because I know I can’t escape.

Not by running anyhow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I didn’t believe I could write a suicidal poem I found one.  
> All rights go to the creator.  
> https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/short/suicide

**Tuesday, June 1**

 

I got slick on my sheets last night. The nice clean sheets I made the bed only yesterday. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I ran out of heat suppressants too.

If uncle Vernon finds out what I've done, he’ll yell at me. Punish me. I remember the harsh beating I got when I was five or so because I’d urinate on the bed every time a thunderstorm struck, every time I had a terrifying dream.

No thunderstorms causing me to sully the bed now, but a horrible, frightened facet of life, nonetheless- a facet of adulthood.

 

I inspected all the cupboards in the house but we didn’t have the proper cleaning agents to eliminate the mess. I’ll have to come up with an inconspicuous way of concealing the stains. Maybe I’ll flip the mattress over if I’m strong enough to.

Vernon’s been getting home a whole lot latter these past few months. He refuses to divulge what it is he does between five o’clock and eight o’clock each weeknight. Is he working overtime? Or is he spending the early part of the evening drinking or socialising? The latter I have less trouble believing. He might even be gambling for all I know.

I hope there’s enough time for me to cook us a decent meal, flip the mattress, and remove my clothes from the line. Hopefully, it’ll be dry before he returns. It’s fairly windy outside, but it’s also wet.

 

My clothes, I think now, and blood ignites my cheeks like hot flames. The most shameful thing happened to me this morning.

 

I feel so humiliated.

 

They were laughing at me again, and for good reason. I mentioned before that I ran out of suppressants. I didn’t have any more money to get more; Vernon hides it all for safekeeping and there was no time to hunt around for some before school.

So I did what I believed to be the next best thing. As silly as it was, I carefully went into Vernon’s bathroom and borrowed some of his rutting suppressants. It may not be the same as a heat but I could only hope it would help until I got the proper medication.

The pill was different to the one I normally take, much bigger and of an odd taste. I only hope it would get me past the day. I had at least a dollar on me. When nobody was looking I planned to obtain the medication I needed from the school’s sick-bay, from the vending machine mounted to the wall beside the hand sanitizer.

That was the plan, anyway. It’s funny how plans can change, especially when you don’t want them to. Particularly, when you’re counting on them not to change from what you originally hoped.

 

I Jogged to school, ten minutes late, oblivious of the lightly falling rain, and got to class just as the bell signalled first class. Mrs McGonagall observed me with that disapproving frown of hers. I don’t think she likes me a great deal either, regardless of the fact that I’m her best student. Smart and well-behaved, not like the rest of the class.

When I entered the classroom, I was sweating and gasping for air like a fish out of water. Mrs McGonagall said snidely, “It’s nice of you to join us, Harry” while the other students gagged on several hurtful remarks that could be freely voiced elsewhere.

They don’t partake in idle chitchat when class begins, because ultimately it would mean detention for them. But as soon as class ends, and everybody is dismissed, some will creep up next to me, mocking me. Sometimes openly, always purposely. And all the while I’ll be telling myself not to cry. They aren’t worth the headache. They are all as cold-blooded as snakes.

I sat at my desk in the second row from the back. I got out my homework. The previous Friday we were instructed to create or find a meaningful piece of writing that we relate to in some way. I wasn’t aware until it was too late. Until I sat down this morning actually, that we had to read it to the rest of the class.

If I had known this sooner, I wouldn’t have composed it myself, because frankly, it is far too personal to be shared with a bunch of people who despise me like the dirt at the sole of their shoes. I would have looked up a poem online and used that instead, preferably someone talented and famous, and made up some stupid story as to why I chose it.

Mrs McGonagall went through a handful of students, with none of them creating their own work. Not a surprise if I think about it now. When she approached me. Her smile was unpleasant, and the unpleasantness of it reached her eyes and every other aspect of her old wrinkled face.

She was sensibly but strictly dressed in a green ankle-length skirt and matching tweed jacket. “What have you written or found for us, Harry?”

Because I am very soft-spoken only Mrs McGonagall heard my reply. “Please, I’d rather not.”

“Either you read it out loud to the class,” said Mrs McGonagall, unaffected by my plea, “or I will do it for you. It’s up to you”

She was torturing me. I got the feeling she liked torturing me.

I could tell she already knew I’d written it myself. I am the only creative genius in the class and she expected nothing less of me.

“Please, I don’t want to do this” I tried again, even though I knew it was useless. With my heart pounding against my chest like a vicious hummingbird. I relinquished my small, cat-eared scrapbook, ever so slowly.

“Thank you,” she clipped.

 

_I went looking for God but found you instead._

_Bad luck or destiny, you decide._

_Buried in the muck, the soot of the city, sorrow for appetite._

_Devil on your left shoulder, angel on your right._

_You with your thorny rhythms and tragic midnight melodies._

_My heart never tried to commit suicide before._

 

The classroom was deathly silent. I heard a locker slam shut in the distance it was that quiet. I looked down at my hands knotted tightly in my lap. I didn’t dare look anyone in the eye. No one knew what to make of the poem, and I was in no rush to enlighten them on its true meaning.

Mrs McGonagall said, “This piece is very…” She searched for the right word. The right word, as it turned out, was ‘disturbing’. I looked up briefly to see her eyes scanning my paper. “Who wrote it, Harry? Did you write it?”

So, she wasn’t sure anymore if I had written it or not. So, I lied.

I shook my head, a bit too hard, and uttered the first name that sprang to mind. “Vernon Evans.”

Uncle Vernon’s first name, although it has been some time since I have heard it come out of my mouth. The last time would have been when aunt Petunia was alive, which was a little over five years ago. I was only eleven when she died, not even a teenager.

Evans was my real mothers maiden name, Her marriage to my father, as I’ve heard, was better than most. Only when they died in a car crash when I was at the age of one, was I left on the doorstep of my aunt and uncle. Life was normal growing up, only Vernon would become abusive towards Petunia, which in turn lead her towards suicide.

Sometimes when uncle Vernon is in one of his moods, he’ll tell me, “you’re such a pushover”. On one indelible occasion, he said I was exactly like Petunia- spineless and docile, and that every time he looked into my eyes he saw her, although we look nothing alike.

“Vernon Evans?” Mrs McGonagall, her face impassive. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him”

“He’s not that good actually”

“Well, I liked it. What did you think of it, Lavender?”

“I **hated** it.” I sank lower in my chair when I had heard her answer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and kudos \\(*^*\\)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early chapter on this very lucky story.  
> Just finished writing another chapter. My back hurts...  
> I hope you guys like this chapter, the last one sort of ended at a cliffhanger.

“You hated it?” questioned Mrs McGonagall “Why is that?”

“It’s disturbing. He’s talking about death and suicide, isn’t he?” she said. “He’s a freak”

“Actually, Lavender dear, he’s a soulful creature. In other words a human being, like you and me. He’s expressing his thoughts and feelings through prose, in fact, it’s very poetic” she added, eyes roaming around the room, “ it’s most certainly a fantasy of his”

“He’s fantasizing about suicide?” Lavender sounded dismayed and disgusted at the same time.

 

“ Is Google male or female?  ” One boy in the front asked, soliciting uncivilised laughter from the others around him.

“ Female, because it doesn't let you finish a sentence before making a suggestion. ” another boy replied.

“Okay. That’s enough.” Mrs McGonagall studied the poem once again “Why did you choose this poem, Harry?”

Pansy spoke before I could open my mouth. “Isn’t it obvious? He wants to kill himself.” A few people chuckled. But I held my breath.

“Was I addressing you, Pansy? No” Mrs McGonagall spoke.

 

“But it’s understandable, considering it literally had the word suicide in it” muttered Pansy.

 

Mrs McGonagall returned her full attention to me “Harry”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged noncommittally. “It’s thought-provoking”

Mrs McGonagall placed my work back on my desk and proceeded to harass the person/victim seated behind me.

It was exactly in that moment that I felt something warm ooze between my thighs. I felt it make it’s way across the seat of my underpants, like a miniature oil spill, leaving a great wet substance across my thighs.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My entire body went rigid as a steel rod. My mind was in utter disarray, full of pleading thoughts.

**This can’t be happening. Please, This can’t be happening.**

But it was. Oh God, it really was.

Then I began to squirm, suffering in silence until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

 

Everyone looked up in alarm as I jumped up out of my chair, holding the end of my shirt, and stood there in the middle of the aisle. Gazing down in undisguised horror at the clear trails that stained my pants. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs but instead, I sobbed pathetically.

Mrs McGonagall was wide-eyed. “Quick!” she hissed. “The toilets!”

I looked up to find the whole class staring at me, their mouths agape, almost like how I entered the room.

Mrs McGonagall moved forward at an incredible speed, despite her age. “What on Earth are you waiting for?” she asked through clenched teeth.

 

“It’s all over the chair!”

“Pansy enough! We will have none of that”

“What did he do? Piss himself?”

“Shut up Goyle” snapped Mrs McGonagall. “If I see anyone out of their seats the whole class will get detention”

Mrs McGonagall grabbed me by the arm and roughly pulled me to the door. As soon as we left the classroom taunting began, with the added bonus of laughter.

“Did you see that?” somebody asked.

“I’m glad I ain’t an omega”

“Potter’s no boy. He’s a freakin’...”

 

Mrs McGonagall hurried me to the toilets. Fortunately, both the corridor and lavatory were void of other teachers and students likely to express their disgust. I tried to hurry with my legs held firmly together. It wasn’t easy. As I reached the corner I stumbled and almost fell

Mrs McGonagall pushed me into the nearest stall and began shouting out orders like a old war veteran. “Towel yourself with paper! Take off your socks and uniform!” She quickly handed me a heat suppressant pill before slamming the door shut.

“For Pete's sake, don’t just stand there like a child! Do as I tell you. I’ll be back with some clean clothes.”

She left me alone to strip in the cold stall which smelt faintly of human faeces.

When I was done stripping I only had on my soiled underwear: the rest of my clothes lay piled at my bare feet. I cast my eyes downward, past my smooth chest and stomach. Tears stung my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. The emotions brewing inside of me weren’t new to me. They were old and over-spent.

As I stood there with my back to the unflushed latrine hugging myself, desperate to stop my tremors, someone slipped into the cubicle left of me, pulled down their pants and urinated on the floor. The urine streamed out like the polluted water from a rusty pipe, smacking the cement with enough force to clear away any debris.

I watched quietly in silent horror as the puddle spread, flowing through the bottom of the wall that separated us, and soaking the corner of my rumbled pants.

I whimpered.

From the other side of the wall, there came a soft satisfied chuckle. I glimpsed the individual’s shadow. I heard the lock snap back, which was followed by the door roughly being opened. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Not even to see who it was. To see who was evil enough to pull such a demeaning stunt.

Someone in my class, for sure, I thought. A girl? Maybe Lavender or Pansy.

Finally, Mrs McGonagall returned. “These will have to do,” she apologised as she slung a pair of black gym shorts and a black polo shirt over the door. Both were a size or two too big for me.

While I was struggling to put them on, Mrs McGonagall noticed the trail of urine on the floor. “Good Merlin!” she gasped “Must you be so feral?”

“I didn’t…”

“Do you like defiling school property?” she asked.

“No…” croaked.

“You aren’t in preschool anymore, Harry”

“I know.”

“You're sixteen!”

I put my shoes back on, shivering miserably without socks. I had difficulty tying my laces, so I left them as they were. My legs were still sticky with slick. At least I’m not oozing out unwanted slick anymore, I thought. And dry. Cold, humiliated, pathetic- but dry.

Inside her tiny, poorly vented office, Mrs McGonagall sat me down at her worn looking desk. She studied me silently for an uncomfortable amount of time. There was an air of sadness in her normally dull green eyes. I tried saying I was sorry for disturbing her class, for appearing immature even though I’m not, but like a piece of undercooked meat, the words got lodged in my throat. I coughed instead.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she said, surprising me. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I understand that you're scared and confused by what happened here.”

I stared blankly at the floor. I doubted she understood a thing.

“You’ve been without a mother for a while now, haven’t you?”

I looked up. The sadness in her eyes had deepened. “Some people are overjoyed when they get their first heat. I know my I was. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it was the thought of having children. But, depending on the circumstances, others can be quite traumatized by it.”

I shook my head. “It’s not my first. I ran out of suppressants.” I felt stupid admitting it to her. Thinking back now lying would have been less embarrassing.

“Oh, I see. Well, in that case, you’d best go to the supermarket and buy some more.” She reached across her desk and took a sheet of paper from atop a stack of lettered papers spilling out of a metal tray. “Let me fill out an exeat slip for you. I don’t want you waiting any longer understand? It could be dangerous”

I didn’t argue with her. “Alright.”

“And Harry? Try not to worry about the other kids. We’re only human in this world” she re-emphasised.

Humans are capable of anything, of being monsters. So how was that meant to console me?

Mrs McGonagall marched off and got my bag for me. I checked it for unwanted gifts that my class could have planted, but discovered none. I lugged it home in the rain. It was heavy with my soiled clothes balled up inside it. Well-groomed people hunched over the steering wheels of their luxurious vehicles, their heaters and stereos blasting simultaneously, drove by seemingly without a care in the world.

All aware of the rain-swept streets, for once oblivious of the grim looking boy caught in the unrelenting downpour. I entered the house drenched but uncaring. I chucked the laundry into the washing machine. I towel-dried my hair and changed into a pair of loose-fitting blue jeans, thick woollen socks and a red hooded sweater- and thought that my outfit be reused in the interest of the environment for stacking potatoes, t was that baggy and unattractive.

I folded Mrs McGonagall’s emergency clothes, put them back in my school back, and then searched the house for money. I searched Vernon’s room first, including the bedside table and wardrobe. I smelt camphor as I groped and pawed every jacket and trouser pocket, until at last my exploratory fingers came upon something paper-thin and plastic.

I extracted a ten-dollar note, grabbed an umbrella, and fled the premises like a criminal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment & Kudos if you please (/*^*)/


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just finished writing another chapter. My back hurts...  
> I hope you guys like this chapter, the last one sort of ended at a cliff hanger.

“You hated it?” questioned Mrs McGonagall “Why is that?”

“It’s disturbing. He’s talking about death and suicide, isn’t he?” she said. “He’s a freak”

“Actually, Lavender dear, he’s a soulful creature. In other words a human being, like you and me. He’s expressing his thoughts and feelings through prose, in fact, it’s very poetic” she added, eyes roaming around the room, “ it’s most certainly a fantasy of his”

“He’s fantasizing about suicide?” Lavender sounded dismayed and disgusted at the same time.

 

“ Is Google male or female?  ” One boy in the front asked, soliciting uncivilised laughter from the others around him.

“ Female, because it doesn't let you finish a sentence before making a suggestion. ” another boy replied.

 

“Okay. That’s enough.” Mrs McGonagall studied the poem once again “Why did you choose this poem, Harry?”

Pansy spoke before I could open my mouth. “Isn’t it obvious? He wants to kill himself.” A few people chuckled. But I held my breath.

“Was I addressing you, Pansy? No” Mrs McGonagall spoke.

 

“But it’s understandable, considering it literally had the word suicide in it” muttered Pansy.

 

Mrs McGonagall returned her full attention to me “Harry”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged noncommittally. “It’s thought-provoking”

Mrs McGonagall placed my work back on my desk and proceeded to harass the person/victim seated behind me.

It was exactly in that moment that I felt something warm ooze between my thighs. I felt it make it’s way across the seat of my underpants, like a miniature oil spill, leaving a great wet substance across my thighs.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My entire body went rigid as a steel rod. My mind was in utter disarray, full of pleading thoughts.

**This can’t be happening. Please, This can’t be happening.**

But it was. Oh God, it really was.

Then I began to squirm, suffering in silence until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

 

Everyone looked up in alarm as I jumped up out of my chair, holding the end of my shirt, and stood there in the middle of the aisle. Gazing down in undisguised horror at the clear trails that stained my pants. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs but instead, I sobbed pathetically.

Mrs McGonagall was wide-eyed. “Quick!” she hissed. “The toilets!”

I looked up to find the whole class staring at me, their mouths agape, almost like how I entered the room.

Mrs McGonagall moved forward at an incredible speed, despite her age. “What on Earth are you waiting for?” she asked through clenched teeth.

 

“It’s all over the chair!”

“Pansy enough! We will have none of that”

“What did he do? Piss himself?”

“Shut up Goyle” snapped Mrs McGonagall. “If I see anyone out of their seats the whole class will get detention”

Mrs McGonagall grabbed me by the arm and roughly pulled me to the door. As soon as we left the classroom taunting began, with the added bonus of laughter.

“Did you see that?” somebody asked.

“I’m glad I ain’t an omega”

“Potter’s no boy. He’s a freakin’...”

 

Mrs McGonagall hurried me to the toilets. Fortunately, both the corridor and lavatory were void of other teachers and students likely to express their disgust. I tried to hurry with my legs held firmly together. It wasn’t easy. As I reached the corner I stumbled and almost fell

Mrs McGonagall pushed me into the nearest stall and began shouting out orders like a old war veteran. “Towel yourself with paper! Take off your socks and uniform!” She quickly handed me a heat suppressant pill before slamming the door shut.

“For Pete's sake, don’t just stand there like a child! Do as I tell you. I’ll be back with some clean clothes.”

She left me alone to strip in the cold stall which smelt faintly of human faeces.

When I was done stripping I only had on my soiled underwear: the rest of my clothes lay piled at my bare feet. I cast my eyes downward, past my smooth chest and stomach. Tears stung my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. The emotions brewing inside of me weren’t new to me. They were old and over-spent.

As I stood there with my back to the unflushed latrine hugging myself, desperate to stop my tremors, someone slipped into the cubicle left of me, pulled down their pants and urinated on the floor. The urine streamed out like the polluted water from a rusty pipe, smacking the cement with enough force to clear away any debris.

I watched quietly in silent horror as the puddle spread, flowing through the bottom of the wall that separated us, and soaking the corner of my rumbled pants.

I whimpered.

From the other side of the wall, there came a soft satisfied chuckle. I glimpsed the individual’s shadow. I heard the lock snap back, which was followed by the door roughly being opened. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Not even to see who it was. To see who was evil enough to pull such a demeaning stunt.

Someone in my class, for sure, I thought. A girl? Maybe Lavender or Pansy.

Finally, Mrs McGonagall returned. “These will have to do,” she apologised as she slung a pair of black gym shorts and a black polo shirt over the door. Both were a size or two too big for me.

While I was struggling to put them on, Mrs McGonagall noticed the trail of urine on the floor. “Good Merlin!” she gasped “Must you be so feral?”

“I didn’t…”

“Do you like defiling school property?” she asked.

“No…” croaked.

“You aren’t in preschool anymore, Harry”

“I know.”

“You're sixteen!”

I put my shoes back on, shivering miserably without socks. I had difficulty tying my laces, so I left them as they were. My legs were still sticky with slick. At least I’m not oozing out unwanted slick anymore, I thought. And dry. Cold, humiliated, pathetic- but dry.

Inside her tiny, poorly vented office, Mrs McGonagall sat me down at her worn looking desk. She studied me silently for an uncomfortable amount of time. There was an air of sadness in her normally dull green eyes. I tried saying I was sorry for disturbing her class, for appearing immature even though I’m not, but like a piece of undercooked meat, the words got lodged in my throat. I coughed instead.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she said, surprising me. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I understand that you're scared and confused by what happened here.”

I stared blankly at the floor. I doubted she understood a thing.

“You’ve been without a mother for a while now, haven’t you?”

I looked up. The sadness in her eyes had deepened. “Some people are overjoyed when they get their first heat. I know my I was. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it was the thought of having children. But, depending on the circumstances, others can be quite traumatized by it.”

I shook my head. “It’s not my first. I ran out of suppressants.” I felt stupid admitting it to her. Thinking back now lying would have been less embarrassing.

“Oh, I see. Well, in that case, you’d best go to the supermarket and buy some more.” She reached across her desk and took a sheet of paper from atop a stack of lettered papers spilling out of a metal tray. “Let me fill out an exeat slip for you. I don’t want you waiting any longer understand? It could be dangerous”

I didn’t argue with her. “Alright.”

“And Harry? Try not to worry about the other kids. We’re only human in this world” she re-emphasised.

Humans are capable of anything, of being monsters. So how was that meant to console me?

Mrs McGonagall marched off and got my bag for me. I checked it for unwanted gifts that my class could have planted, but discovered none. I lugged it home in the rain. It was heavy with my soiled clothes balled up inside it. Well-groomed people hunched over the steering wheels of their luxurious vehicles, their heaters and stereos blasting simultaneously, drove by seemingly without a care in the world.

All aware of the rain-swept streets, for once oblivious of the grim looking boy caught in the unrelenting downpour. I entered the house drenched but uncaring. I chucked the laundry into the washing machine. I towel-dried my hair and changed into a pair of loose-fitting blue jeans, thick woollen socks and a red hooded sweater- and thought that my outfit be reused in the interest of the environment for stacking potatoes, t was that baggy and unattractive.

I folded Mrs McGonagall’s emergency clothes, put them back in my school back, and then searched the house for money. I searched Vernon’s room first, including the bedside table and wardrobe. I smelt camphor as I groped and pawed every jacket and trouser pocket, until at last my exploratory fingers came upon something paper-thin and plastic.

I extracted a ten-dollar note, grabbed an umbrella, and fled the premises like a criminal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment & Kudos if you please (/*^*)/


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll most likely edit this later on, just wanted to get this chapter out on time. >-<  
> I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far.

**Wednesday, June 2-2:56 am**

He’s dead! His blood is everywhere ( except, it seems, where is should be- inside of him!) His eyes are still open. Should I close them for him? I don’t want to touch him! I’m really scared, more scared than I've ever been in my entire life. More scared that the time I discovered Petunia’s body collapsed on the bathroom floor, squirting blood like a fountain.

Oh, God, it happened so quickly. The stabbing was frenzied. I was so mad. Enraged and utterly insane. Or not insane, because I knew exactly what I was doing. I thought I got him thirty or forty times. I wasn’t counting. With each downward thrust of the knife I was thinking: **Die!Die!Die!**

I cannot believe what I've done. Yet I know it’s not a dream. I'm not on my bed- Uncle Vernon is!

Over four hours have passed. I guess I've had time to calm down. Not a lot, but enough to think rationally and clear my head of the maddening fog. And I can’t sleep. I flopped onto the couch and I tried to sleep, but I kept seeing Vernon everytime I shut my eyes.

This is what happened…

 

He came home at 8:30 pm I’d estimated the time poorly. His overheated dinner was spoilt, especially the carrots. They weren’t ‘babies’ by the time Vernon had gotten to them. They were shrivelled old ‘grannies’.

Looking rather disgusted, he stabbed the plate with his fork. “What is this rubbish?” he grumbled. “Food? When are you going to acquire real cooking skills? When your husband starts beating the crap out of you? That’s if some poor bloke will have you.” He wasn’t atypically moody or offensive. He ate the so-called food quickly, shoved his empty plate aside and fired up a cigarette. “Fetch me my newspaper, will you”

Like a well-trained dog, I dutifully fetched him his newspaper from the coffee table in the lounge room. Ungratefully he accepted it.

 

“Lucky you brought it in before the rain got to it,” he muttered.

 

“Yes,” I replied, shooting lemon scented dishwashing liquid into the sink.

 

“I like my paper dry, so I can read it. Be sure to remember that”

 

I nodded. “I will.” Then, trying to improve his mood “Uncle? Would you like some dessert?”

 

He barely acknowledged me. “What’ve ya got?”

 

“Treacle tart”

 

“It’s old, isn’t it?”

 

“It’s kept in an airtight container. It should be alright still”

 

“Forget it. Probably poison me. We wouldn’t want that to happen now would we?”

 

“No”

 

“Chuck it out then.”

 

I disposed of the tart despite knowing it was perfectly edible. I washed the dishes, cutlery and Tupperware in hot soapy water, dried and put everything away in their rightful place.

 

“Would you like me to switch the television off?” I asked him.

 

“No,” he answered gruffly “Dervish and Banges are on tonight.”

 

Fine. I didn’t ask him who or what Dervish and banges was. I didn’t care. I tidied up the lounge room a bit and adjusted the cushions on the sofa so they were plumped-up diamonds, not flat squares. Straightened the mats. Even watered the brown plant on the windowsill, which is probably not sick but dead. There were no pets to feed, only humans, so my job was done.

Finally, I excused myself. I locked both the front and back door’s (Vernon always neglects to) and retreated to my confined space at the rear of the house to some math. That didn’t go too badly, I thought. At least he didn’t hit me again. Or threaten to. Maybe the day went extremely well for him. Or maybe he’s just too tired to get physical.It all depends on how he’s feeling, I guess.

Mine is the smallest room in the house. Without ducted heating, and because it receives very little sunlight during the day, it’s always freezing. Though it is an upgrade from the cupboard that I spent a quarter of my life living in.

It contains a single bed with dark green doona , plus other essential furnishings. The carpet is a dirt cream colour, that use to be pure cream. The walls are a pale yellowish-brown, almost white. It is not the fanciest room you would expect someone to have. There is no walk in wardrobe filled with multiple clothes one could have, no posters of airbrushed musicians or movie stars, no paperback novels, nothing to say that I’m a young boy with any passions besides sleep.

At approximately ten o’clock Vernon lumbered past the hallway and muttered something inarticulately at my closed door. Sweet dreams? Fat chance.

He got ready for bed. He rarely showered, brushed his teeth or shaved. What he usually did was pull out his threadbare pyjama bottoms, kicked off his threadbare slippers, and plunge a couple of fingers up his nose before blowing. 

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, textbooks scattered about me. I could hear him stumbling about in his room. Once he was in bed I had to be especially quiet, so I listened out for the bed springs. 

Instead I heard the unmistakable creak of the wardrobe door opening.

 

Oh, no, I thought. My heart nearly clobbered my ribcage to smithereens. I got up off the floor. I waited.

 

Seconds later Vernon’s loud footsteps came down the hall and he burst into my room. He was practically a giant, six-foot three, fat hanging out of his shirt with a unkempt mustache under his nose. His face was blotchy red. He was holding up an enormous brindled, moth-eaten jacket that is more than twenty years old. A jacket that he no longer wore, but it still looked awfully familiar.

 

“You little bugger!” he swore. “There was fifty dollars in this, and ten of it is missing! What did you spend it on? More junk?” His eyes scoured the room in search of something new. “What could be so important that you would resort to stealing from the person who took you in? Come here!”

He grabbed the top half of my hooded sweater and, before I could grab hold of something myself, yanked me forward and up onto my tiptoes. He could’ve easily lifted me a metre off the ground and held me there until I choked.

There was no time to expostulate, to defend myself verbally. No way was I going to be able to defend myself physically. To defend myself physically was to accomplish an impossible feat. I  was outweighed by at least thirty kilos, and most of that was fat. So I just let things be. Why complicate the matter further by struggling? I asked myself. Why not just shut the hell up, go limp in his arms like a rag doll, take the beating like a true champ and make things easier for the both of us?

First, his right fist came at my mouth, and I yelped as it struck its target. It was the only sound I let myself make. His other fist swung at my eye, missed, instead struck the bridge of my nose; the blurred vision was instantaneous.

My brain was suddenly encapsulated in a fuzzy lightless place. He released his strangle tight grip and I dropped to the floor near the end of the bed. I raised an arm and tried to hide my pulverised face in the crook of my elbow. A lot of good that his me; he simply aimed blows elsewhere. He resorted to kicking me. He kicked my thigh, then my arm, then my stomach.

 

I don’t deserve this! I though. I _do_ deserve this! But I didn't scream. I didn’t dare scream. He had warned me once that if I screamed, I would get it worse. But how could I have gotten it worse? I wonder now. The pain was incredible.

Vernon bent down, his form resembling something less human, more barbarix. This time he grabbed me by the hair. He twisted my neck around, forcing me to look at him. “Apologise,” he breathed in my face. His breath was revolting. Nauseating.

 

Fat teardrops sprinkles down my cheeks. “I think...my arm’s broken.”

 

He shook me like I was an overstuffed toy. “I don’t care! Apologise!”

 

“Uncle, please…”

 

“Apologise, you dishonest little bitch,” he upbraided “Apologise and promise me you’ll give back every little cent you stole. Do you want me to call the police and have them take you away? Is that what you want? Because that’s what I’ll do. They’ll take you away, and I’ll let them”

He sounded like a raving, out of control lunatic. He was a raving, out of control lunatic. But I knew his threats were as empty as washed-up seashells. We  **_Both_ ** knew it. We both knew he would never-not in a million years- call the police. Because who would get taken away? Who would go to jail? You, not me. And I didn’t steal the money from you. I borrowed it.

You never gave me the chance to explain, although an explanation-even a rational one- wouldn’t have made much of a difference. That was mistake number one. Big mistake number one, because it was more than likely cost you your life.

I studied his gaunt hollow-eyed face from less than two inches away, committing to memory the jagged line of his mouth, his thick furry caterpillar brows, slightly off-centered squished nose and pasty, pockmarked skin. Sometimes Vernon could look really sick, like a starved heroin addict. Now, he just looked like a psychotic.

 

“ _ Please _ !”

 

“I’m not hearing an apology from you.”

 

“I intended to give it back.”

 

“When? Next year?”

 

“Next Week!” I was going to suggest no pocket money for a month, two if it made him happy.

 

Again he shook me. “I’M. NOT. HEARING. IT.”

“I’m sorry!” I wept at last. And just like that he let go of my hair and nodded. “That’s better.”

 

The spring-loaded, retractable blade, purchased from Borgin and Burkes, was only long enough to be part way through him. It tore the flimsy material over his chest and sank into his skin, not far, I didn’t think, but far enough to penetrate something. The silver blade slipped in and out so swiftly, it was as if it had never entered. But it did. The horrified expression on his face told me it did. So did the blood.

I wrenched the knife out of his torso and shoved it back in-and again, repeatedly, until it became an involuntary reflex, devoted of consciousness.

In, out, up, down, in, out, up, down.

Shadows danced over the bare walls, like a ghostly spectator mimicking my actions.

Somehow Uncle Vernon had enough strength to rise to his feet. I stabbed his thighs, his kneecaps: his striped pyjama weren’t stripy anymore. He took one step back, lowered himself onto the bed and kind of grunted. I stood over the bed with the knife raised high, dripping fresh blood that still felt warm on my hands. Type-A blood.

 

“Just...ice,” he rasped.

 

“It certainly is,” I replied with a voice that was my own but not.

His eyes glazed over. They were so wide and round. He watched the knife come at him again. He watched it carve open his midsection like a slab of meat- edible for a cannibal- and all the while the two of us were impossibly silent.

At last Vernon stopped moving. I stepped away from the blood and took a deep shuddering breath. Vernon was gone, and I was alone in my room. Only it wasn’t my bedroom anymore. It was an abattoir. It was a place of death. The knife a sheathed with blood. I slid it back underneath the mattress without cleaning it. I didn't I need it anymore. After that, time went by very slowly. I'm not sure what I did next. I think I went outside and chucked up dinner. I vaguely recall squatting by the back steps, feeling the wind ice-cold on my neck. At one stage I gazed up at the stars, but they were hazy. Indefinable.

I wondered what Mum was thinking. Maybe she was arguing with God about what I'd done. Defending my actions  _ “Don’t banish him to Hell, dear Lord. Where do you think he’s been for the past fifteen years?” _

From now on, I think I’ll sleep in Vernon’s bed. It’s big and comfy and warm. I’ll move all my belongings into his room and forget Vernon ever existed. Close the door on him forever. Because what else can I do? His death is a fait accompli. An accomplished fact and it cannot be reversed.

Forget him, that’s what I will do. Move on and forget him.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to comment and kudos ^-^


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter :o Hope you guys like it but don't worry the story get better and less depressing? I guess.

**Still Wednesday, June 2**

Killing someone is exhausting, I found this out the hard way. I slept half a day without stirring or waking up. I didn’t dream. I could’ve been a dead person. As dead as Vernon, I reckon, curled up in his king-sized bed reeking of cigarette smoke and stale sweat and my own vomit. His pillow smelt awfully funny, too, probably because he never washed his hair. Just dampened it with tap water. Yuck.

The shadows were different in Vernon's room, larger and more scary looking. But somehow I got to sleep, and I didn't open my eyes until about four o’clock in the afternoon. I didn't go to school, but so what? I have a feasible excuse:

I killed someone. Furthermore, I have my heat. That makes two feasible excuses. No need to feel guilty. One absent child won't make a difference, anyway, I told myself.

Ten minutes later the phone on the bedside table rang, I was still in bed, staring up at the ceiling and the dust on the light fixture. I didn't answer it. Maybe it was Mrs McGonagall, I thought. Maybe it was the principle. Maybe it was the wrong number.

When it stopped ringing, I flung back the covers and stood. The pain struck me everywhere. The light dimmed and my knees almost buckled. My rump was sore. My back and arms were sore. I hobbled over to the dresser. Even my hips were sore. I studied the battered face hovering in the mirror. It looked very familiar to me, like an old friend.

“Hi, you,” I said. “Long time no see.” I was being sarcastic of course.

I had no broken bones, as internally feared, but the bruises… What of them? I asked myself. I’m used to them. And anyway, they're incidental. Vernon’s gone, which means this is the last I’ll be seeing of them. Once they heal, they’ll be gone for good also.

I lowered my eyes, discovered I was wearing yesterday’s clothes, which were covered in Vernon’s blood. I hadn’t noticed but that particular detail last night. It appeared a crusty brown on my royal blue sweater and faded sweatpants. It was also on my hands and wrists, and a little on my neck and face. The blood coming out of my nose was my own.

I got naked post-haste and dumped everything into the washing machine. I stripped the bed as well. Next, I tried relaxing in a hot bath. The rising steam made me drowsy. My muscles grew slack. I climbed from the tub and found that I could barely stand. But when I realised I didn’t have a clean change of clothes with me, my body grew tense all over again. The clothes were still in my room, jammed in the dresser drawers and hanging in the closet.

I scolded myself with my fists for having been so impulsive and neglectful. The last thing I wished to do was go back in there and face the aftermath of last night’s attack.

But I knew it wasn't something I could postpone indefinitely. I knew it had to be done sooner than later. So, even though no one was around to see me, I wrapped myself in a raggedy old towel and crept toward what used to be my bedroom door. WEdged beneath the door was a thin yellow line of yellow. A fan of artificial light stretched across the floor of the passage like a piece of transparent gauze. I thought I saw a faint shadow flitter over it, like the shadow of a bird flying over a lake. Vernons shadow coming to get me.

I stepped into that puddle of wan light as tentatively as if I were really stepping into a puddle of water. I gripped the doorknob with fingers like pincers. Whatever you do, I told myself, don’t look down.

I rushed into the room-charged almost-with my chin determinedly up and my eyes half closed, rounded the foot of the bed and slid the wardrobe door open. I began tugging clothes off their metal hangers, and blindly flinging them over my shoulder and out the door. It became s race against being contaminated. I upended the drawers and swept the objects on top of the desk into a plastic bag. I threw three pairs of shoes out the door into the hallway; I threw my homework and school bag after them.

I sure made a lot of noise, but not enough to wake the dead apparently. The stuff I left behind was unnecessary, I decided. A couple of picture frames. Nothing of importance or worth accidentally copping a look at Vernon over. What’s left of him?

The hallway was a heaped mess, like an unorganised rummage sale. I switched the light off, pulled the door shut behind me and breathed out a huge sigh of relief. I was finally done with him. No more insults. No more beatings. I am free.

The curtains in (what was originally) my bedroom are drawn tightly shut, so no one will be able to see him from the backyard. No one including me. And I know that the smell will eventually come, the smell that inevitably accompanies somatic death, when Vernon’s flesh starts to putrefy and rot. But I think I have the solution. I’ll burn incense in some of the adjoining rooms. Disguise the smell of death with something sweet and aromatic.

I know I’ll have to do something with the body eventually, but I'm not ready to think about it yet. I dressed warmly, leaving my hair to dry (and tangle) naturally. I made Vernon’s- **_my_ ** -bed and sorted my new room. First, I grabbed all of Vernon’s clothes and crammed them into three medium-sized suitcases; I slid these under the bed. Next, I hung up my jeans and jumpers and track pants and my uniform. I folded the smaller items-socks underwear and t-shirts- and tucked them neatly into the drawers.

The top drawer contained Vernons personal items, including his wallet, his gold-plated wristwatch, a pack of cigarettes, half a dozen lighters, medication (for his ruts I assume) and various unpaid bills. The wallet held sixty-one dollars and ten cents, his driver’s licence, and a ho-hum collection of business cards. I pocketed the money and tried on the watch. Sadly it didn't fit my wrist.

I was about to close the drawer when I noticed Vernon’s passbook. How much do you suppose he has in his savings account? I asked myself. Very little I guessed.

For years Vernon hoarded his money. I never knew exactly how much his job at Grunnings paid him, but it certainly wasn’t a lot if he was so opposed to spending any of it. He was stingy. He developed this policy to never buy the same thing twice-unless it was irreparable and an absolute necessity to the household. The TV set is fairly new, but everything else is as primitive as the house. I knew there was definitely more money in it for me. I just didn’t know the precise amount.

I reached into the drawer, picked up the passbook and opened it to the second last page. I wasn’t nearly prepared for what I saw. Fifteen grand!

What’s even better is that fact that I can forge Vernon’s signature. I’ve done it before. A few loops here, a dash and squiggle there. Really that’s all it will take for me to get myself a new life. But I’m not silly enough to spend it all at once. Long-term survival is the game. Mum and Dad lost the game. I thought I had lost the game. But now I have this chance to save myself-and to win.

“Fifteen thousand, huh?” I spoke to myself. Although excited, I was-understandably-a little peeved. “Talk about being a sneak.” That’s all history. I thought gladly.

The telephone rang again. This time it went on and on. I counted twenty-two rings. I hoped whoever is trying to get through will give up soon. What if I answer and it’s a friend of Vernon’s Or worse still, what it it’s his boss What will I say? I considered disconnecting the phone, but that might draw people to the house. 

“Where’s your uncle?” I imagined them asking. “Can I come in? I've been expecting him at work.”

I was nauseous just thinking about it, so in the meantime, I won’t. During the next two or so days I’ll avoid answering the phone. Because in two or so days I predict that my life will be in order, and by then I’ll have figured out a way of handling these minor, looming details.

I haven’t eaten all day. Strangely enough, my stomach is empty but I’m not hungry. There isn’t much food left, anyway, just some two-day old ploughman's, canned fish, and a few litres of soft drink.

 

Tomorrow I’ll skip school again. I’ll go to the bank and withdraw enough cash to buy some groceries. And maybe I’ll treat myself to a few nice things. After I’ve managed to achieve, and all in a matter of hours, I believe I’ve earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment & Kudos (*^*)/

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you enjoyed reading and kudos for shits and giggles


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